Riskera
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: The mission Berwald had agreed to, mostly for Christen's benefit, had been straight-forward enough: take Lukas from the custody of Beilschmidt to Sweden where he would be sent to England. / WWII SuNor, DenNor, Sweden/OFC, past SuFin, Nazi!Germany


Author's note: WWII SuNor, DenNor, Sweden/OFC, past SuFin, Nazi!Germany.

I've always wanted to write a story along this premise and reading a fantastic story of the same period the other day I just couldn't wait any longer. I need to find my library's books on Sweden, Norway, and Denmark during WWII, they have to be hiding somewhere.

* * *

**Riskera**

Berwald didn't need Christen's constant reminders on his way out as if he was the unsubtle idiot who lacked diplomacy, who understood so little of their friend. In some ways Christen knows Lukas best; in other ways, worst.

Turning abruptly and leaning in close so that those all around them, damned German soldiers, know he's threatening the Dane but can't hear the words, Berwald says lowly, "I am going to smack you. I was always going to smack you, so that they will be more favorable to me, but now I will mean it. You will shut up and you will take it like a man, understood?"

"Ja of course-" Christen starts before the back of a Swedish hand, too large for its own good, connects with his face and knocks him hard to the ground. From the background a woman comes forward; maybe it's the Hungarian nation, maybe it's a Danish whore who's given herself over to the occupiers. Berwald frankly doesn't care anymore, marching forward to stand tall over Ludwig Beilschmidt.

"We have a deal," he says, his words cool like ice. Beilschmidt had let slip to the Austrian, who'd told the Frenchman, who had drunkenly informed the Swede over the phone, that the German nation feared most that voice of Berwald's: a voice that's low, devoid of all emotions in a way few others are capable of, a voice that commands respect.

With that, he turns and leaves for his boat back to Sweden.

* * *

"That hurt ya bastard!" Christen's letter reads as he finishes packing for his trip west, the secretary bustling after her Swedish boss to jot down the response.

"Good," he starts before turning, cutting her off from writing the word. Good was code, good meant all had gone well. Damn, what snarky comeback to send then?

"No 'good'?" the woman asks, hair piled high atop her head, skirt tight around her thin frame. Berwald could almost love her, call her beautiful, if he was in the mood for a woman's touch. Today he's a bit busy.

"No good," he repeats under his breath, continuing to the study to grab one last book before heading back to his room to pack it away. "No good."

"What shall I write then Herr Oxenstierna?"

He takes her shoulders in his hands, holding her still. The woman's bright face seems confused for a moment like Timo's face used to; Berwald knows that's why he hired her, that it's an addiction, but she's sweet and he likes her all the same in a way he hopes is separate from his lost Finnish love.

"I don't know," Berwald admits, sinking to the edge of the bed. "I just don't know."

"Shall I- shall I leave?" she inquires, placing the papers and pen down on his bedside table. "Or would you like me to stay tonight?"

Taking her in the nation thinks the offer over before asking, "Do you want to stay?" She shrugs, blushing.

"To be honest you're not half bad in bed Sir-" he snorts "-and it is nice to not be alone, what with the war going on and all. Plus you'll be gone for so long," and she steps forward, a hand cupping one of his cheeks.

Berwald pulls the woman to him, kissing her deeply.

* * *

Beilschmidt is, as arranged, waiting in Oslo for him. Stepping from the car Berwald tries to take in little of the capital he once loved, cringing inwardly at what Norway was going through while Sweden remained neutral. But these matters were not for him to decide; they were for his government, and he was to do as he was told.

This today, however, was very much off the radar.

Silently the German leads him inside; the boy's grown, though part of Berwald wishes he hadn't. What a stupid prat the Prussian had raised. Once in the office Beilschmidt at least has the decency to offer him something to drink, which the Swedish nation refuses.

"I only drink with allies," he says smoothly, cooly. "This way I will never drink again." Beilschmidt chuckles, raising his eyebrows.

"I had hoped we would have some formalities to ease this first-"

"No," the older man interrupts, sitting very properly in his chair. Behind glasses he takes in the younger nation with a calculating gaze. "No, we already have our deal. The time for niceties is long since passed."

Beilschmidt stands at the edge of the desk, thinking this over and nodding slowly as if to himself, sipping at his drink. He puts it down, the ice clanking within, and grimaces.

"Well then, let us discuss tomorrow."

"Oh goodie," Berwald sneers.

* * *

In the hotel room he strips down, laying in luke warm water and scrubbing his skin as if he might wash away the taint of Nazism. What was he doing here? Was this really worth it?

As he dries himself, sitting on the bed, he takes in the last picture of the three Scandinavian nations he has: it had been taken here, in Oslo. There was Christen, smiling. There was Berwald, with his blank face. And there was Lukas, with an expression less blank and more empty, lost.

Berwald remembers then why this is worth it.

* * *

With the Norwegian king being in London, by the rules established amongst nations incarnate years earlier Lukas Bondevik was a free man to go to the United Kingdoms and join his king. The mission Berwald had agreed to, mostly for Christen's benefit, had been straight-forward enough: take Lukas from the custody of Beilschmidt to Sweden where he would be sent to England. In return Berwald, as one of the few neutral nations, wouldn't seek punishment on Beilschmidt for breaking that one rule.

All the other rules, well, Berwald would take pleasure when the time for that punishment comes.

* * *

The room smells something akin to a village recently struck by death he thinks as he follows Beilschmidt in. The German stops just inside the door, his face blank and staring straight ahead as if in pain. Turning from his face (Berwald doesn't miss the flinch) he sees what is paining the man so.

Lukas lays in the middle of the room, bloody, bruised, bleeding. His heart skips a beat and though he had an image to keep up, he flies to the Norwegian, scooping him up in his arms and cradling the head that falls back dangerously. His clothing is ripped; Berwald can see several fresh wounds as well as many that have started to heal. The body is light, too light, and it makes him feel sick in his stomach at how thin Lukas has become, thinner than he's ever seen him.

That nation looks at him then with big blue eyes, dark like the approaching storm, and smiles in a most un-Lukas way. "Be," he murmurs, pressing his nose into Berwald's chest. Lukas never calls Berwald Be; beloved yes, and occasionally Björn to rile him up, but never Be. "Be," he repeats.

"Lukas?" Berwald gasps in a low voice, the world and Beilschmidt melting away. "Lukas speak to me, tell me something."

"Is this Heaven?" the Norwegian inquires in German.

"No," Berwald replies in Norwegian, "Lukas I don't-"

"It must be Heaven," Lukas says, swallowing oddly as if his throat was broken. One hand reaches up weakly to stroke a Swedish cheek and Berwald clutches that hand to his skin, letting it set him on fire. "Because you're here saving me. Ha." The man's body vibrates with the awkward, hollow laugh. "Ha. Ha ha. Ha ha ha!" Never has Berwald wanted to kill a man more than Beilschmidt in this moment for what he's done to his Lukas.

He stands with the Norwegian in his arms, turning, a face made of ice. Lukas goes quiet, though whether he's still conscious the Swede isn't sure. Berwald pauses before Beilschmidt, meeting his gaze before spitting in his face and leaving.

* * *

Lukas won't stop babbling in the hotel room; it is unnerving.

The damage had been both worst and better than expected, Berwald carefully undressing the man to try and figure out which wounds came from being the embodiment of a country at war and which were all his own. The scrawny body is paler than ever before, thinner than ever before, almost dead.

The Swede cries silent tears as he works, agreeing without listening when Lukas pauses in his rambles. It sort of reminds him of when they were small, how Lukas could talk for hours while Berwald listened, taking assurance in that voice while the Norse boy took comfort in having someone listen to him. When the winter had come, and nearly all the townsfolk around them died, they'd fallen silent permanently like those they'd lost.

He speaks of God, of Jesus and the Holy Spirit. He speaks of Viking raids and Iðunn and trips to Birka, of Vinland and Emil and the Kalmar Union. He speaks of how he knew Berwald would save him like he never has before, how Christen was always the one who saved him, caught him when he fell, but how he knew one day Berwald would be the one saving him because he loved him right? He had to love him, the Norwegian was sure of it.

Exhausted the neutral nation lays beside Lukas, watching him speak with sad eyes, glasses forgotten somewhere. And when the Norwegian suddenly stops he panics, checking that the man is still alive; asleep, he's finally fallen to sleep. Berwald holds him in his arms and joins Lukas in dreams of Asgard.

* * *

Strength enough has returned when they cross the border, Lukas once more himself: quiet, reserved, cold like the North Pole. Berwald almost misses the delirious talking.

When they get into Sweden Berwald drives several more kilometers before pulling to the side of the road. Lukas steps out, kissing the ground and crying tears meant for no one else to see but his companion. But he works himself up, making himself ill, and Berwald steps out to help hold him up while Lukas wretches, emptying his stomach of the little food he'd managed this morning. The Swede hands him water to wash his mouth with before they get back in the car.

* * *

On the train from Göteborg to Stockholm the Norwegian stares out the window in silence, Berwald beside him. The taller man reads from the papers Beilschmidt had handed over along with Lukas, the ones that detailed what others had done to him, the drugs he'd been subjected to. He holds Lukas's hand, squeezing it involuntarily when he gets to a part that he finds particularly unpleasant. Lukas only ever squeezes in return.

When the Swedish nation returns after having stepped out for a moment, Lukas finally reacts at the closing of the compartment door, looking at him with the same eyes he'd had when leaving Stockholm for Oslo in 1905. What had once been his prison would now give him freedom; Berwald isn't stupid enough to miss the irony.

"I suppose you want me to thank you," the Norwegian says in Swedish. When the morning after he took him Berwald had said something in German Lukas had freaked; they haven't spoken in German since then. "I won't."

"I don't need your empty words," the Swede says bitterly, pushing the notebook away. He was tired with the world, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

A hand, weak but strong, grabs his shoulder. It pulls Berwald down, till Lukas's other hand grabs his hair and pulls him into a desperate kiss. The Swede pulls the Norwegian to him, holding him too tightly, as Lukas touches him all over, once more setting him on fire. Tongues swirl and air is lost and Berwald remembers just how desperate he too had been to know Lukas was safe, free, perhaps more desperate than Christen could ever have known.

* * *

On the table by the front door Berwald finds the letter, written and marked and ready to be sent. The letter reads one word, "Good," the address Christen's. He'd have to thank the secretary later.

Immediately Lukas falls asleep on his bed, sleeping for what seems like days. The Swede moves about in pants and his undershirt, bare feet padding the room that's become messy from the papers and books he's dragged in from the study to keep him company in the master bedroom. Most of the time though he lays beside the Norwegian, watching him sleep restlessly, how his faces scrunches up and his body seizes as if in pain, or how he relaxes and smiles in bliss.

Berwald loves Lukas, kissing his nose.

* * *

As far as nations incarnate go, Berwald is very much aware of how naughty he is considered for how often he does not listen. The problem was that his government knew too.

"You could have jeopardized everything!" the official screams. "Did that ever occur to you, you thick-skulled idiot?"

"This didn't involve you," the nation says through gritted teeth. "This was between my kind and we all understand that. I jeopardized nothing."

"It could have destroyed everything! Everything, Oxenstierna, do you not understand that word?" As the man continues rambling on, fuming and yelling as if he could change the past, Berwald contemplates how many ways he could kill him with his bare hands. The problem of course wouldn't be disposing of the body but rather covering up the disappearance.

Yet the official falls silent at something and looking up eyes like the sea take in Lukas standing in the doorway, still thin and pale and clearly sick but standing nonetheless. The Norwegian says nothing as he walks forward, dragging his left leg a little. He holds the official's gaze, sneering at him, before he makes his way around the desk to sit on Berwald's lap, wrapping his arms around the man's neck and tucking his head under a Swedish chin.

He knows the indigo eyes have snapped back to the official when the mortal man flinches. Lukas's words are spoken in perfect Swedish. "You were saying?"

* * *

Christen is given just enough leeway to meet them at the dock in southern Sweden before they board the boat to London. The Danish nation's entire being seems to light up at the sight of his Norwegian companion, running to Lukas and holding him tightly. The shortest of the three men lets him, wrapping his arms around Christen's neck and kissing him deeply the way Lukas has kissed Berwald, with a longing from a different age that they alone still possess.

The captain comes out to inform them that they are leaving in a few minutes and he only has two of them marked down for passage. "Yes," Berwald agrees stepping back, "these two." He nods to Christen and Lukas.

"What?" the Dane sputters but Lukas slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes meeting Berwald's in silent understanding. Christen quiets as he comes to understand too, reaching out a hand to shake Berwald's. Instead the Swede hugs Christen, kisses Lukas passionately, then turns and walks back down to land.

He stands at water's edge until the boat is well out of his sight. "That was against the rules," a voice informs him from behind in what he imagines Beilschmidt thinks is quite good Swedish; he doesn't miss how the man tries to imitate Berwald's manner of speaking.

Turning the taller man smiles to confuse the German. "The problem with our rules is, young Ludwig, that during a time of war a neutral nation must file the complaint, and I do not think our Swiss brother cares so much for you at this moment."

Smirking Berwald sets off back to the car, turning his collar up against a cool breeze coming off the sea.


End file.
